


Empty Sheets

by DiRoxy



Category: Septiplier - Fandom, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2018-04-19 20:06:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4759301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiRoxy/pseuds/DiRoxy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He reached out slowly, his fingers sliding across the sheets. They felt cool to the touch and vaguely silky.</p>
<p>They weren't his sheets, but the one who owned them was not there either. Those sheets has been cool for hours. Days. Weeks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Empty Sheets

**Author's Note:**

> This is transferred over from my Septiplier tumblr blog, Septiplieraway. I had a lot of fun writing this, even though it's sad, but I hope you all like it. :)

He could still taste the alcohol on his tongue, the hint of vanilla and earth that made him feel heavy and slow. He used that heavy tongue to wet his dry mouth and lips. They were chapped, peeling, and rough against his tongue. He reached out slowly, his fingers sliding across the sheets. They felt cool to the touch and vaguely silky.

 

They weren't his sheets, but the one who owned them was not there either. Those sheets has been cool for hours. Days. Weeks.

 

He let out a slow breath and withdrew his arm, tucking it close to him against the warmth of his own chest. Every day was the same. A slow drag waiting and hoping, only to be disappointed and go to bed alone in an apartment that wasn't his anymore. Some nights he would drink to take away the dreams and the loneliness, but he always felt worse in the morning.

 

He wrapped his hand into the comforter and pulled it up, tucking it over his head. He kept his breaths shallow, but still it quickly grew humid beneath the cover of the blanket and the moistness was suffocating. His fingers flexed and pulled the blanket tighter. His legs pulled up and he curled in on himself, the lump in his throat growing tighter with each passing moment. Yet he had no tears left, they had long been dried up with every other emotion he could have felt. All it was did was make it harder to breathe, not that the humid air didn't take care of that already.

 

He closed his eyes tight enough to watch the colors spark across, arcing reds and blues that chased each other across his field of vision.

 

A tinny tune started up to his right, something cheerful that he had picked out as an alarm when he had been better. His fingers twitched in the blankets, and he contemplated letting it continue if only to have some noise in the silent bedroom. But finally he pushed back the covers, sucking in a deep breath of cool air as he sat up. He groped blindly for the phone and clicked the alarm off, setting it to the side and staring across the room at the empty white wall. Not that long ago he had been dancing there with him, laughing and carefree.

 

He slipped his legs over the edge of the bed, standing up and wincing slightly as his entire body protested the movement. He combed his fingers through his hair and padded to the bathroom to shower. The pounding of the water against his shoulders and the rising steam normally would have relaxed him, brought him back to down to Earth, but he thought it was much better to float today. Taking care of his personal hygiene was done on autopilot, his eyes averted from the mirror and his mind wandering to stop too many thoughts from coming through. He didn't know how he was going to make it through the day otherwise.

 

He barely remembered dressing, though he did recall the stiffness of the fabric and the way it buckled around his joints instead of folding. Offhandedly he realized that it must have been starched quite a bit.

 

Sooner than he liked he was sitting in a church pew, staring ahead blankly as tearful people spoke at the pulpit and told stories. He had tried to focus on the rosewood box in the front at first, but had quickly found he hadn't been able to breathe properly. So now he just stared ahead, aware of everything and nothing at the same time. No one asked him to speak, everyone seemed to understand that he was barely on his feet as it was.

 

He sat there until the church emptied out, left alone with the coffin after a gentle pat to his shoulder and a light squeeze. It was only then he let his eyes focus back on the box. It was a rosy color, befitting rosewood, and the hinges and locks were all a burnished gold. It was likely they were actually brass, but he imagined for the moment that they were gold. It was shiny, polished this morning for the one and only time it would be shown off to the public.

 

He stood and walked over to it, setting his palm on the wood. It was cold, just like his sheets, and his heart. It felt a bit like ice was sinking into his veins, but he knew it was all in his head. Most things were just in his head now.

 

Like the feeling of lips against the back of his neck, or on the back of his hand. The feeling of warm arms around his waist. Faint whispers in the dead of night when they had meant to be sleeping.

 

His breath hitched and he lowered his head, closing his eyes as he tried to control himself. It seemed he was wrong when he thought he had used up all his tears.

 

It was a few moments before he could pull in a normal breath and feel like he could straighten up. He ran his hand over the polished wood one more time and let out a quiet sigh. It was time to put him to rest, and then return to his empty home and try to move forward. He smiled sadly and shook his head briefly, his hands falling to his sides in fists. He turned to walk away, throwing the last words he would say to the man over his shoulder.

 

"Love ya Mark."


End file.
